by Anne Oliver
She caught her reflection in the boutique window and frowned. Boring, boring, boring. The top she wore must be four seasons old. And she lived in jeans or overalls. How long since she’d splashed out on something feminine? Something that would knock Jack’s eyeballs to the back of his head.
She lifted a shoulder. Not that she cared what he thought. Liar. More like she wanted Jack to see what he was missing out on. ‘I wonder if they have that outfit in my size,’ she said, and, handing her ice-cream to Jeanne, she went inside to ask.
* * *
Back at Jeanne’s apartment, Jeanne twitched at Cleo’s gauzy layers of skirt, then stepped back with a smile. ‘Stunning with a capital S. You sure you don’t want to go somewhere more crowded to show it off? Seems a waste to spend the evening eating seafood at Ritzy’s with plain old Jeanne when you could have a nightclub full of men at your feet.’
Cleo did a slow turn in front of Jeanne’s mirror, checking out the back view. ‘I don’t want men at my feet.’
‘Okay, it doesn’t have to be your feet.’
‘Ha ha.’
But Cleo did feel a little like Cinderella going to the ball. The top fit like a glove, showing a flattering cleavage, hinting at more. Sparkles spilled down the single spaghetti strap and swirled over the bodice. Matching strappy pink stilettos completed the look, and underneath she’d purchased a strapless bra, and, in a daring move, a hot-pink thong. The chiffon skirt, with its six points of sheer fabric reaching just below the knee, gave the outfit a whimsical feel.
A warm glow of pleasure spread through her body. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Until she looked at her face.
Some of that pleasure dulled. She wasn’t Cinderella, she was still Cleo Honeywell. Worse, she was still Goldilocks. ‘I need a fairy godmother with her magic scissors.’ She turned to Jeanne. ‘Will you cut my hair?’
‘Sure, a quick trim would—’
‘I mean really cut it—short as in...s-h-o-r-t.’ She held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. She didn’t tell Jeanne about the picture of Liana what’s-her-name draped over Jack’s arm with short, spiked, sophisticated hair.
The Goldilocks/Barbie image had to go.
‘God.’ Jeanne straightened, her expression one of astonishment. ‘I’d kill for your hair and you want to cut it off? Have you thought about this? What’ll Jack say? He’s crazy about your hair.’
Barbie doll hair. Cleo turned away quickly and caught her own mutinous reflection. ‘I’m not doing it for Jack.’
‘Right,’ Jeanne said. ‘Bugger Jack, the man’s an idiot. A woman should do what pleases her. Still, it’s rather drastic.’
‘I’m feeling drastic.’ A new and exciting anticipation slid through her. She stripped off her new clothes.
Jeanne tossed her an old shirt. ‘Okay, let’s do it.’
* * *
A couple of hours later Cleo stood in front of her own mirror studying the transformation with a mix of horror and exhilaration.
She’d covered her hair in a sun hat and sneaked in, but she needn’t have bothered. Jack was napping in front of the TV tennis while Sweden and the U.S. battled it out for the Australian Open.
Oh. My. God. She raised a hand to her hair. What there was of it. Jeanne had put highlights and something called styling mud through it and it stood up in soft little tufts all over her head.
She looked at the whole picture. The lack of hair seemed to augment her eyes; they looked brighter and lighter, and her diamanté studs actually showed.
She laughed out loud. It was totally out there along with body piercings and tattoos. And which of those would come first? Probably neither, since both involved pain, but it was satisfying to know she could. If she chose.
Today she’d made a decision solely for herself. It felt good, and liberating. She was definitely going to do it more often. She held the pink outfit aloft on its hanger and laughed again. Starting tonight.
Two hours later, fresh from a long scented bath and a careful make-up session, she watched Jack from the edge of the family room. He’d stretched out on the floor in baggy shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. One hand curled around a can of beer. His head was propped on a cushion and he was watching the TV news between the V of his long, sexy feet. His hair was mussed.
As she watched his free hand pushed the T-shirt higher, over hair-sprinkled, taut gold skin and scratched lazily back and forth.
Heat flashed through her blood. The thought of those long fingers cruising slick and slow over her own belly seared through her brain. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Another before she said, ‘Jack, I won’t be home this evening. There are a couple of frozen dinners you can microwave if you want.’
‘Hmm...okay.’ He didn’t tear his eyes from the sports news.
‘Don’t wait up.’
He glanced her way, then seemed to turn to stone. His beer-can hand paused halfway to his lips.
Give him time to look, but not to ask questions.
She felt the slow slide of his gaze from the burnished, highlighted tips of her hair to her freshly lacquered toenails. Back to her head. Shock furrowed his brow, darkened his eyes. And something more—her skin prickled—something...hot.
‘Your hair...’
‘Jeanne did a good job, didn’t she?’
‘Ah...’
Slack-jawed and speechless. A first for Jack Devlin.
Keeping to her plan, she glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait up...’
But she was already halfway across the room, her stilettos clicking over the tiled foyer. Timing was critical.
‘Where are you...? I’ll drive you.’
She beamed at him—over her exposed shoulder—as she reached for the door knob. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine. Bye.’ And pulled the door shut behind her.
She didn’t know if Jack would come after her, but she did know by the heat on the back of her neck that he was watching from the window. Good. Great. Satisfaction had never felt so good.
Her mood lighter than it had been in a long time, she walked to her car without looking back. ‘Enjoy your evening, Jack. I intend enjoying mine.’
NINE
Jack checked his watch for the umpteenth time, then punched the wall. Two a.m. Where the hell was she? Who was she with? Of more concern, what was she doing?
Forcing the unsettling images away, he went back to standing at his window in the dark, willing her car to turn into the drive. A gentle night breeze flirted with the curtain, cooling his naked, sweaty chest. He saw Con crouched on the porch like a great fur log with whiskers. The stillness of the night was interrupted briefly by a dog barking, the call of a night bird.
But no Cleo.
Her mobile was switched off. Why was it off? Letting out an impatient snarl, he slid to the floor and leaned back against the wall.
The image of her as she left was seared into his brain as clear as any photograph. How many times had he studied it tonight?
She’d cut her hair. What was all that about? And that outfit— Whew. His hormones kicked in again at the memory. He’d never seen her in anything so feminine, so...startling. So un-Cleo.
But he’d detected a glint of mischief in those big blue eyes. As if she knew something he didn’t. He cracked his knuckles. He hadn’t liked not being in control of that situation one bit.
Two-ten a.m. Blowing a harsh breath, he watched the streetlight and shadows play on the wall. Apart from a couple of evenings out with Jeanne, since he’d been back, Cleo hadn’t been on a date.
Was this a damn date? Did she date regularly? He hadn’t been around Cleo, the adult.
The woman.
The woman he’d held in his arms not so many nights ago. Th
e woman who’d slapped his face, then scaled a wall to be with him. How could he not be moved by that unique spontaneity?
And, yes, he was going to stand by and watch someone else have her. Because it was best for Cleo. Take a bow, Jack Devlin.
So why was he sitting on the floor—while his bum went numb—counting the minutes?
The sound of a car’s tyres had him scrambling up, his heart pounding with relief. But his relief was short-lived. When he looked down, an old Toyota Corolla with a dent in the front passenger side pulled up as the security light winked on.
He craned his neck—the car was directly below and the angle was wrong—but he could just see the pale but indistinct shape of two faces in the dimness.
His fingers curled on the window sill as a minute ticked by. Two. Three. What was she waiting for? It became obvious when the two faces merged into one for a second or two.
Two seconds too long. The hot quick flash took him by surprise. Not jealousy. But it snaked through his body like venom. And still he stood, unable to turn away, while the passenger door opened with a groan of tired metal and Cleo stepped out, laughing at something lover-boy said.
She looked young and vulnerable with that short hair, her slender body reflected in the porch light. For a nerve-racking moment he thought she was going to bring him in too, but she pushed the car door shut and waved, disappearing from view as she stepped onto the verandah.
He pried his fingers from the sill, unclenched his jaw and ordered himself to get a grip. Take a cold shower. Go to bed.
But he wanted to see her again. Simple as that.
And just as simply, he turned and walked to his door to wait for her to come up to her room.
When she didn’t come, he paced the floor, then—to hell with it—he stalked downstairs. He found her in the kitchen, pouring milk into Con’s bowl while Con wound his way around her perfectly shaped legs. He had an insane urge to slide right on over and do likewise. All that exposed creamy skin made him think of warm milk and honey and how smooth and sweet it would taste against his lips.
Which made him scowl as he propped himself on the door jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘What’s the point of having a mobile if you switch it off?’
She whirled, spilling drips of milk on the floor and over her hand. ‘Jack!’ She did a quick scan of his body—naked but for midnight-blue boxers—then concentrated too hard on the milk carton as she replaced it in the fridge. ‘You’re still up.’
‘Yes.’ More than she knew. Shifting to hide the augmenting evidence, he crossed his right ankle over his left. He stared hard at her until she met his eyes. ‘The phone?’
‘Oh. I only switch it on in an emergency,’ she said. Her tongue darted out to lick the milk off her hand. Still holding his gaze. As if she knew what was going on a few hands lower and wasn’t game enough to look.
He cleared his throat. ‘How do you know if there’s an emergency if you don’t keep it on?’
‘I mean, if my car breaks down, or something.’ She ripped off a piece of paper towel and crouched to mop up the spill. Con lapped up the stingy milk offering and walked off in disgust towards the stairs.
‘So...did your car break down tonight?’ he asked in a reasonable voice.
She rose slowly, walked to the bin and tossed the paper. Then she leaned one hip against the counter. ‘No, but I don’t like the way you said that. It had a definite edge.’
‘An edge.’ She was trying to put the blame on him? His temper spiked. He reined it in, barely. ‘Wasn’t your car I heard pull up.’
‘I had a couple of drinks. I left my car at Jeanne’s.’
‘Jeanne’s?’
Her own temper fired up in those blue eyes. ‘Why are my words coming back at me, and what’s with the eyebrow lift?’
He shrugged. Let her dig herself into a hole. ‘Wasn’t Jeanne who drove you home.’
‘No. It wasn’t.’ She watched him for a long moment. He thought he saw regret or hurt flicker across her features before she blanked all expression. ‘Jack, you made it quite clear you didn’t want me in your bed—’
‘Bed?’ Cleo naked beneath him, her pale body writhing on his black silk sheets... Before the erotic image could take hold he cut her off with a quick slash of his hand. ‘Did I say anything about bed? I only mentioned a lift home.’ He pushed away from the door. It wasn’t only temper now, it was anger and pain and a load of other stuff he couldn’t seem to sort out.
She toed off one pink shoe, then the other, shrank a couple of inches. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘Obviously not.’
Without her shoes, she looked like a little girl lost with her raggedy hair and skirt. He wanted to take her in his arms and make everything all right. He wanted to shake her till she told him the truth.
Mostly he wanted to knock lover-boy’s balls into his throat.
‘Is that why you’re late?’ Because you’ve been in some man’s bed?
She walked to the sink, took a glass from the drainer, filled it with water and drank it with her back to him. ‘Before you rudely interrupted, I was going to say I didn’t think it would matter to you. What I did. After all, you don’t want me.’
He watched her slender bare neck as she rinsed the glass. Not want her? He should be relieved, even pleased. He’d achieved what he’d set out to accomplish.
So why did he want to hurl the nearest available object?
She reached for the tea towel and made a major production out of wiping her glass. ‘That makes it none of your business, Jack.’
‘The hell it doesn’t.’ His anger had claws. Anger at himself and anger at her because she made him forget. ‘You’re family, remember? That makes it my business.’
‘No. I’m Cleo Honeywell, all by myself.’ She turned her back on him. ‘I’m nobody’s business.’
‘Wrong.’ He slapped a palm on the table. Her words struck like a knife all the way to his soul. And he was responsible. She’d built a wall around herself to shut out the hurt. To shut out Jack Devlin.
He turned his anger on himself, raised a conciliatory hand towards her, let it fall, useless, to his side. ‘You’ll always be my business, Goldilocks.’
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do me on another continent,’ she shot back in a voice that belied her small stature. ‘Assuming I wanted your assistance, which I don’t.’
In a lightning-quick move he was behind her. He could feel her heat, could see each tiny gold hair on the back of her bare neck. The subtle bouquet of feminine scents—perfume, shampoo, makeup—filled his head, leaving no room for reason.
All he knew was need.
She turned. Sucked in a breath as their bodies bumped. Wide, shocked eyes flew to his. Her breasts grazed his chest, the little beads on her top abrading flesh that was suddenly way too sensitive. If glass beads could do that, what havoc would warm bare skin and tight nipples wreak?
His hands streaked over firm shoulders, smooth arms. Grasping her hands, he brought them to his lips, slid his tongue over her palms, then the delicate inside of her wrists where her pulse beat like a fury. Her taste was all he’d imagined and more, sweeter than honey, smoother than milk.
And his eyes didn’t leave hers. I want to do this to you until there’s not a patch of skin I haven’t tasted. He watched those eyes sharpen, deepen, saw the moment she registered his unspoken message.
‘We have now,’ he murmured. Then speech was beyond him. Waiting was beyond him.
Releasing her hands, he held her face between his palms. Saw his own arousal mirrored there in the flushed cheeks, lips parted in anticipation. He lifted her onto the counter top so they were eye to eye.
Then he set his lips on hers. Now had no beginning, it had no end. Now was all he needed, this moment, this woman, the hot, slippery slide of her tongue aga
inst his. At her soft moan he plunged deeper. She grasped his medallion, fisted a hand around it and tugged him closer.
She was in his head, his heart, his soul. Even in the harsh glare of the kitchen light, by the night-darkened window and fully dressed, she surrounded him.
A strangled groan rumbled in his throat at the first whisker-light touch of her fingers over his chest, then again, God help him, when they scraped and rubbed over his nipples.
Sanity flew out the window, long-denied passion rushed in to fill the void.
Closer. More. More skin to skin. His hands trembled as they left her face and slid the single tiny strap off her shoulder, down her arm.
His senses absorbed the blur of hot-pink lace, soft flesh, the rasp of his own breathing as he unsnapped her bra, tossed it aside and filled his hands with the womanly weight of her breasts.
With his hands on her bottom, he slid her to the edge of the counter. He put his hands on the silky firmness of her thighs, pushed them apart and stepped between them. His erection came up hard against hot, damp panties.
‘Jack.’
His name on her lips, breathy and demanding, drove need towards desperation as her hands clawed at his nape and her head fell back.
Then his mouth was on her neck. On that smooth, vulnerable place where the blood pounded like a drum and her moans hummed like music against his lips.
He was blind, deaf and dumb to everything but her. The warning voice thrumming at the back of his mind grew muffled, distant, until he could no longer hear it. Could no longer drum up the energy or the inclination to heed it.
He heard Cleo’s voice against his ear, felt the brush of her breath as she said, ‘So live the now, Jack. For once in your life let yourself go.’
Cleo’s mind spun. Was she dreaming? Was this the Jack who’d tossed her out of his room not so many nights ago? Breathless, she put her hands on his shoulders, nudging him back so she could see him. She watched his eyes glaze over.
Right where she wanted him, and she hadn’t even tried. The only way she’d known she’d ever get Jack in bed was if he wasn’t thinking of consequences and all those other issues he had with her. Like now.